


Bear's Matchmaking Service

by bumblybee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 14:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15317994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblybee/pseuds/bumblybee
Summary: There is a black cat in Conor’s house.





	Bear's Matchmaking Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dudewhereismypie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudewhereismypie/gifts).



> Fic for Vic! Thanks for listening to me whine and also for being the cronchiest, most tasty of lettuce. 
> 
> This got longer than my prompt fills usually do, so I figured I'd share it over here. You can find my writing blog [here](https://bumblybee-fic.tumblr.com/)!

There is a black cat in Conor’s house. 

He almost doesn’t notice it at first. It’s been a long day at work, and it doesn’t help that he hadn’t been able to get much sleep the night before. But the best thing about coming home is the dogs, always the dogs, and he’s bombarded as soon as he steps into the house, two distinct voices yipping at him as they both try to claim all of Conor’s attention for themselves. 

Conor complies, of course, because how could he not?

The dogs always have their dinner first, and they know exactly what time it is when Conor heads for the kitchen. He pours them both a nice bowl of kibble, refills their water, and, because it’s a nice day out, opens the screen door to the yard to let them roam for a bit and take care of their business. 

When he gets back to the kitchen, though, there is the cat, sitting beside the dogs as they devour their food. It looks up at him expectantly, as though he should have food ready and prepared for it, too. 

“Who are you?” Conor asks, realizing only after he’s said it that it’s a little - okay, a lot - ridiculous to try to talk to a cat. 

But the cat talks back, meowing at him and slowly winking one eye, then the other. Conor notices that it has a collar, the black band camouflaged by its equally black fur, but then there’s a glint of a metal tag. He crouches down as slowly as he can, reaching out to the cat carefully so as not to startle it. He has a feeling that if it’s bold enough to ask for food, though, it shouldn’t be too scared of him - and it isn’t, letting him touch its collar so long as he gives it a few scratches. 

_Bear_ , the tag reads, and has information for Bear’s microchip and his owner’s phone number. 

The dogs have moved outside, and by the time Conor lets the cat go, Bear’s off to follow them, sniffing around the in backyard and swatting at bugs—and sometimes the dogs, if they try to nip at him. Once Bear’s gone, Conor repeats the phone number to himself and reaches for his phone to dial it when his doorbell rings.

He sees the man at the door before he even opens it, and if his stride falters in the hallway a little, it’s not like anyone can see. 

Because while Conor can’t make out too much through the frosted glass, he can see enough to tell that this guy is _massive_ —taller than even the tallest guys on his beer league hockey team, and several of them are well over six feet. 

When Conor opens the door, the guy turns toward him. Conor can tell that he’s expecting someone taller to the answer the door—Conor’s used to that look by now, the one pretty much everyone taller than him gives him when they realize they have to look a little further down to meet his eyes. 

And boy, does this guy have to look down at him. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the stranger says, and though he’s polite, Conor can tell from his tone that he’s more than a little stressed. “But I just moved in a few days ago down the street, and my cat’s gone missing, and I was hoping someone might have seen her.” 

“Her?” Conor asks, and the guy nods. 

“Yeah, her name’s Bear. She, uh. She’s a black cat, which is why I’m worried; you hear all these stories about what people will do to black cats, and tomorrow’s Friday the 13 th , so… I just want to make sure she’s safe.”

Conor hasn’t even thought about the significance of tomorrow, to be honest, but the inconvenience Bear had originally been completely evaporates. He’s glad that if someone had to have found her, that it was him and not someone else in the neighborhood who might wish her harm. 

He also tells himself that that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it led to the very tall, very handsome stranger at his door.

“She’s here,” Conor says, stepping aside to let him inside. “I think she’s in the yard with the dogs. I didn’t even know she’d gotten in the house until I fed them—I was going to call you, but now you’re here, and…” 

And Conor’s babbling, which really isn’t the kind of impression he’d wanted to make. 

The stranger’s shoulders immediately relax, and he closes his eyes for a moment in relief. “Oh my god. Thank you, really, you have no idea how worried I was about her.” 

Conor shrugs, leading him out to the yard where the animals are still playing. “I’m sure I’d be just as worried if it were one of my dogs,” he says, and he knows it’s true. If Brady or Louie had been the one lost in the neighborhood, he’d tear the town apart to find them. 

When Conor looks up at the stranger again, he’s pretty sure he’s not imaginingthe look they’re sharing, only broken when the stranger heads out into the yard to retrieve Bear. 

“Bear-Bear, come here, girl,” he calls, his voice rising a few octaves from his regular speaking voice, and it’d almost be funny if Conor wasn’t so taken with the picture it all made. Bear meows at him, sitting up on her hind legs and reaching up with her front paws, and he picks her up, letting her settle herself around the back of his neck and around his shoulders. 

Conor remembers reading somewhere that cats like to get up as high as they can, something about being able to see everything going on around them, and he figures there’s probably not a higher perch than Bear’s owner himself. 

The stranger walks with Bear around his shoulders with ease, resting his hands over both sets of her paws. His hands are just as huge as the rest of him, and that’s—really not a road Conor needs to go down, thanks. 

“Thank you, again,” he says. “I, uh. I’m Jamie, by the way.” 

“Conor.” 

They shake hands, and Jamie casts a glance back toward the yard, where Brady and Louie are still running around and play-fighting. 

“Cute dogs,” Jamie says, smiling at Conor as though he’s not really talking about Brady and Louie. 

Conor’s brain feels like it short-circuits, partly due to his exhaustion from work, and partly because he’s pretty sure he’s just been handed a flirty pet-loving stranger on a silver platter, and he’s not quite sure what to say in the face of that. 

Bear is his saving grace, though, because she starts meowing, and Jamie pets her head sheepishly. “It’s time for her dinner, too,” he admits. “I’d better get home before she decides to get too upset with me.” 

“If she’s at all like the boys, you’d better hurry,” Conor says with a smile, and the way Jamie looks at him then—

Bear meows again, even louder than she had before, and Jamie pats her paws gently. 

“Okay, okay, I hear you. Not even a thanks to Conor for taking care of you, eh?” 

Bear turns to look in the opposite direction, as if Conor couldn’t be of any interest at all to her. 

“Sorry,” Jamie says, “and thanks, again. We’ll get out of your hair. And, uh.” He nods toward the street. “I’m at number 36. Just, you know. If you want to bring the dogs by sometime. Fenced-in yard and everything.”

There's a yip from behind him, Louie trotting his way to the door, and Conor, feeling emboldened, looks back up at Jamie with a grin. 

"Guess you have your answer."


End file.
